Saltwater fish. Iridescent, luminescent tangram scales – anchored in place. Tail fins – a feathering.
Ah, for a fish to become a bird. To join heaven and ocean, as if I could pull myself together.
I don’t know how to swim, even in my dreams.
I was so afraid, to get into the ocean. I was pregnant, and worried.
So you took me to a saltwater pool. You convinced me: even with the weight I was bearing, I could float.
My pregnant belly interrupted the horizon of my thoughts.
The warmth of the water below, the cold fear of life above.
A floating fish is dead. A floating bird is alive. A floating pregnant person is trying to be twice alive: to carry the fish who would become a bird.
Pam Yve Simon (she/her) believes in love and poetry. She earned her bachelor of arts in English and American literature from New York University. Say hi to her on Twitter @PamYve.